LADY SUPERNOVA'S LOVER
She lets me sing my song even mumbles along but the lyric is just one word,
"boom..."
She dresses me, impressed when she smiles and sees I'm
doomed...
Wakes up to dusty rain gust, glittery spray rust,
powder that makes lungs anxious breathing
as he fuels it with stained love.
His lungs: rustoleum red, rustoleum read on atmosphere canvas.
Canvass surveillance that nobody sweats he signs, in hand print.
Phobia Falcon cauldron browsing Atlas for Crimson Badges.
Occupies time keeping his hands dry in the drowned hearts of Atlantis.
Phantom! He's a sunset with a heartbeat and a huntress
with an army silhouette attached to arteries
assigned to detonate in his chest.
In his last breath, so he's gone far; millipeding his steps,
never repeating attempts, ever just feeding his strengths;
ever just biding his time, opportuning design when Today provides
her voice/his name the bright song along the explosion left behind.
"T'was moon tide of summer, at mid-time of night
and stars in their orbits shone pale thru the light--
the brighter cold moon; mid-planets, her slaves
herself in the heavens, her beam on the waves"
(-EAP)
City of statue citizen in canceled subscription to capsule submission,
a classroom of ash and a laser in fashion
attached to subtraction of life from the caption.
Lung in adaption of love and compassion,
she's proud of me now I'm a gallon of acid in radiated ration,
twisting her smile so bright and so loud she's singing.
Clouds fall to the ground, dragging the sewer,
flash-flooding Obscure; angelic metallic replaces organic.
The trees, they all choke! Air becomes fewer...
Oceans evaporate open to propagate casket for planet.
I drop and break, landing on a bed of dead fish
and sunset electric in a reservoir pageant...
...Of a beautiful glass. I'm in the iceberg of her eye
and she kisses me in between space and time;
new dimension walks on, my heart perfectly fits
in her mouth the way she likes; with one word we unite...
(c) Primitive Prime! All Rights Reserved.
I remember when I didn't know how hip-hop beats were produced. At one point this was as mysterious to me, as childbirth is to a 5 year old. I grew up right before the world wide web, I was a teenager by the time it started calling itself, the internet. It wasn't the information network it is today, the idea was there but the reach had yet to exceed its grasp. So when I listened to a Dr. Dre instrumental and tried to figure out how it was made, I didn't have youtube MPC tutorials or wikipedia entries about samplers, synths, and drum machines--I wasn't into magazines (or more to the point, my empty wallet wasn't into magazines) and I didn't have any friends who made beats. So like that 5 year old kid, that sits with chin in fist at the street curb wondering where babies came from, I simply relied on my imagination.
